


The Demon Barber of Fleet Street

by CaptainReina



Category: RWBY, Sweeney Todd (2007)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Sweeney Todd Fusion, Bad Ending, Bugs & Insects, Child Abuse, Dysfunctional Family, F/F, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Murder, Out of Character, Past Relationship(s), Unhealthy Relationships, and thats okay, honestly everyone is likely to end up ooc, i'm just having fun w it, past hummingbird
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:00:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25501765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainReina/pseuds/CaptainReina
Summary: Sweeney Todd, but Fair Game. That's pretty much it. Ft. probably weird casting decisions.
Relationships: Qrow Branwen/Clover Ebi, Ruby Rose/Weiss Schnee
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	The Demon Barber of Fleet Street

**Author's Note:**

> notes before we begin: for those of you that know of sweeney todd, this is a violent mashup of me a) doing my best to make things different and b) just ripping shit straight from the 2007 movie. for those who don't know anything about sweeney todd, just expect some noteworthy ooc. they're just repackaged movie characters. for the most part, i'm avoiding the singing, but there will be two, possibly three characters that sing. also, i've made some questionable casting decisions. 
> 
> beloved characters will die.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> big cw for bugs and vomit-inducing nastiness.

The moon shone upon the calming waves and illuminated the wet planks of the ship. A thick fog covered much visibility, though the beam of a lighthouse in the distance kept the vessel on its course. Clouds hung in the sky, though they had wept their tears away already and would dissipate soon, so the youths that sat in a circle on deck paid them no mind as a young sailor with long white locks spun tales to her companions.

"The Dardanelles were breathtaking," she sighed. "It's hard to believe so much tragedy took place there. And even from a distance Peru's mountains were awe-inspiring - I don't think I'd have the strength to climb them." The other sailors hung on her every word as she leaned back on her hands. "But there's no place like London!"

"No," mused a gravelly voice from behind her, and a graying older man stepped into the torchlight, "there's no place like London."

"Oh," the girl startled, scooting over on the crate to give him space to sit; he did not take it. "Did we wake you, Mr. Yang?"

His clothes and hair were still damp; she still remembered him barely afloat in the storm that had eased only an hour prior, grateful for the rope thrown to him but distant as he boarded. And in that same distant fashion, he failed to answer, instead replying, "You're young. Life's been kind to you." A pause. "You will learn."

It was not so strange, such pessimism coming from the mouth of such a bedraggled man, but amongst the curious silence of her peers she still wondered what could have happened to lead him here, soggy and looking so forlorn.

"If there was ever a place that embodied filth and greed, it would go by the name of London." Tai Yang made his way to the ship's edge, and the sailor found herself following, leaning on the railing beside him. "The beauty of the Dardanelles and Peru are nothing compared to the cruelty of men," he continued, glaring at the city that was rising over the horizon, "yet there's no place like London."

There was nothing she could think to say. The lights of the city rose to greet them, overshadowed by the buildings, an ominous accompaniment to his words. The London she remembered was a lovely place with bustling streets and polite people, and yet Mr. Yang spoke with words that oozed with untold suffering, and not for the first time she wondered what had brought him to this place and time.

The ship drew into harbor and the anchor was set, and still Mr. Yang did not peel himself from the railing until much of the crew was gone. The look in his eye was even more perilously distant than before.

"Mr. Tai Yang," she tried gently, and though he blinked at her voice he did not look at her. "Are you all right?"

Finally he moved, accepting his scant luggage - a battered old suitcase - from another deck hand and shambling toward the plank. She followed his descent to the pier, afraid he would fall into the waters below, but he made it to land with little incident.

"Miss Schnee," he started a moment later, then paused, eyes sweeping over the dark London streets.

"Weiss," she corrected him gently. It was a few hours still before the sun's ascent, and aside from the strays and beggars there were merchants and businessmen scurrying about before it was time to open shop.

"Weiss," he repeated agreeably, albeit not sounding as though he was paying much attention. "I'm sorry." And then, before she could even ask why he was apologizing, he cryptically added, "There are new shadows on these streets."

"Shadows?"

For a long moment, he did not reply; just as she was sure he had nothing left to say to her, he spoke, gravelly rumble giving way to something softer.

"Long ago," Mr. Yang said, "there was a barber with a beautiful wife. She was everything he ever could have wanted, and he . . . he was a naive fool."

Weiss waited patiently as he paused, a deep breath falling from his lips.

"He wasn't the only man with eyes on her. A powerful man, a vulture, and it only took a word to rip the barber from his wife. There was nothing left to spare her from his greed, and he . . . !"

The rise in volume as he cut himself off was the most emotion Weiss had seen from him since they met. Tai Yang caught his breath, and she did not miss how his hands clenched into fists. She decided it was for the better that he faced away; she was not sure what she would do if she could see the grief that dripped from his words etched onto his features.

What role must he have played, she wondered, for the story to hurt him so?

"What happened to her?" she asked gently after a few moments had passed. His voice was feeble when he replied.

"That was years ago. I doubt anyone knows." He sighed then, and turned back to her, his expression a cool mask. He offered a short bow. "Thank you again, Weiss. If you hadn't spotted me in the storm, I'm not sure I would have made it to shore."

Indeed, his little dinghy had hardly looked suitable for calm waters, let alone the torrential downpour the crew had found him in. It was a marvel he had not died - possibly even fate, if one believed in such things. "I'm just glad I could help. Will I see you again?"

"You can probably find me," he said, and there that distant calm returned, "on Fleet Street."

She nodded brightly and held her hand out to shake, but he was already turning away and heading down the street, his pace brisk as though he expected to be followed.

* * *

London had hardly changed in fifteen years - if it had changed at all, it was for the worse.

The streets were still riddled with filth and waste, abandoned by the privileged few. On the corners there remained beggars and prostitutes that found themselves spat on by passersby desperate to raise themselves above their level. Those rare few with inhuman ears or tails gave him wary glances as he passed - would he assault them, solicit them? The only fate for them, even were he to leave them be, was as a victim.

Qrow should not have been surprised, yet disappointment seeped into his bones anyway. _Never change, London,_ he thought grimly.

The sun was beginning to peek over the tops of the buildings as he arrived on Fleet Street, and where he expected a foreclosed disaster he found a dusty little shop. Above the door and covered windows was a sign that read _Mr. Ebi's._ It was a marvel to see the small sign on the door flipped to _open,_ and after a moment's hesitation Qrow reached for the handle and stepped inside.

Rotted wood creaked underfoot, straining as though it would send him plummeting into the foundation at any moment. No customers stood inside; every one of the many chairs were empty, with not even a single plate on the tables to signal someone had visited before him. He could not tell if the powder settled over it all was dust or flour. The only things that interrupted the fine coating of white were little tracks, and bile rose in Qrow's throat as he watched a fat cockroach skitter over a tabletop.

There was a single person inside, presumably Mr. Ebi himself, across the flour-coated counter. The faded green apron he wore did nothing to keep the flour from off his clothing; it had worked its way halfway up his tanned arms, some settled into his hair, with even a streak of it on one cheek. He was busy rolling out dough - presumably for the pies, although the stack of untouched pies on the counter next to him showed there was no reason to bother - and so it took him a few heartbeats to notice Qrow standing in the doorway.

Mr. Ebi's eyes caught Qrow's shoes first, then traveled up his body until they settled on his face. For a moment, there was only slack-jawed surprise, before those green eyes twinkled and his lips twisted into a delighted grin.

"A customer!"

The absolute glee with which it was said had an unfathomable discomfort itching in Qrow's stomach, but Mr. Ebi was around the counter and guiding him to a chair with a firm hand on his bicep before Qrow could even think to leave.

"Sit, sit!" Qrow had no choice but to obey, plopping down into a rickety chair that he was positive would collapse under his weight. Miraculously, it somehow stayed whole. "Where are my manners - I haven't seen a customer for weeks, you see - you came for a pie, yeah?"

Qrow had no opportunity to tell him otherwise. Mr. Ebi did not wait for an answer, plopping a powdered, stale pie onto a plate and setting it down before his _customer._ How this establishment remained open when this strange character had no business was an enigma, not to mention the state of the pie set before him. Not only stale, Qrow found, but _what_ was that awful green discoloration?

Another one of those foul bugs darted across the table, inching curiously toward the pie. Mr. Ebi's hand slammed down upon it, rattling the plate.

"Oh, no you don't," he growled. Qrow tried very hard not to think about how that bare hand covered in bug guts was the same one that made his pie. "I swear, you'd think we had the plague - can I get you some ale?"

Once again Qrow had little chance to respond, but this time he managed a nod before Mr. Ebi was whisking away to hunt down a mug of acceptable filth levels. Qrow's stomach gave a twinge, but he could not tell if it was out of hunger - he had not eaten for a while, after all - or in disgusted protest of the inedible slop before him.

"You'll have to forgive my excitement," Mr. Ebi said, and though his bright countenance in such a disastrous environment unsettled Qrow, it was far better to listen to the man speak than acknowledge the poor imitation of food before him. "I try my hardest, but no one ever comes in - not even to catch a whiff!"

Considering the awful smell issuing from everything in the vicinity - mold and mildew and whatever the hell was in the slop Mr. Ebi was dropping into an unfinished pie - Qrow was not surprised.

"Mind you," Mr. Ebi added, "I can hardly blame them. These are probably the worst pies in London!"

The gleeful smile he had been wearing since Qrow arrived slipped into something painfully forlorn and defeated. In the absence of forced positivity, Qrow could pick out the lines on his face, the bags under his eyes . . . and something like recognition nagged at the back of his mind.

He _knew_ this man.

"Don't believe me? Take a bite."

Oh, Qrow believed him. But Mr. Ebi's eyes were glimmering with expectation, his smile quirking challengingly, and Qrow hadn't the heart to deny him. Already his stomach seemed to recoil in indignation as he hesitantly raised the pie to his mouth and sunk his teeth into a side of crust that was not green.

Indeed, almost the entire mouthful was crust - dry, hard, bland crust, and the small bit of filling he managed to catch tasted distinctly how spoiled meat smelled. Instantly he gagged violently, fumbling for a napkin to spit it out into, and his throat continued to convulse in protest as the taste lingered.

"Isn't that just disgusting?" A mug of questionable cleanliness thudded against the table, and Qrow fumbled for a drink. "Here, take this."

The ale was notably old, soured, but still better than the filling. Still, his body refused to swallow it, so he used it shamelessly more to rinse and spit.

"Plenty of other pie shops out there," Mr. Ebi was saying bitterly, "doing business just fine. Of course, they get their meat from street animals - they don't bother with the market." He was back at the counter when Qrow finally glanced up again, aggressively rolling out raw dough. "Can't afford meat, too old to go around chasing alley cats - "

Qrow made the mistake of glancing back down at his pathetic pie just in time to catch a roach crawling out from where he had taken a bite. Thoroughly revulsed, it was only through sheer willpower (and a firm hand over his mouth) that he managed not to vomit right then and there.

"Times are hard," Mr. Ebi sighed, and he came around the counter to approach the table. Instinctually Qrow leaned away, fearing what new horror might be presented to him, but instead the man only said, "It'll take a lot more than ale to wash that out. Come on, I'll get you something stronger."

Qrow could only hope "something stronger" meant "something consumable." Reluctantly he stood, collected his suitcase, and followed Mr. Ebi through a side door out of the shop. And it was as they passed a staircase and turned into a small, cramped living space, the walls covered with photos, that Qrow realized he _definitely_ knew this man.

Clover Ebi, his old landlord - though he had not been Ebi back then. Only engaged to an unpleasant fool, who he must have married - in that case, where was the fool, and why was he allowing Clover to suffer this alone? Indeed the years had not been as kind as they could have been; though Clover's face still held a surprisingly youthful attractiveness, Qrow could see pain in the limp as he walked, stiffness in his joints as he stretched up to collect a bottle of gin and a glass to pour it in from a dusty shelf.

"Here you go," he said, pushing the little glass into Qrow's hand, and after a brief sniff to judge its drinkability he downed it in one go. The burn on the way down was pleasant, a welcome reprieve from the war his taste buds had gone through minutes prior, and he wondered when the last time was that he had even had a drink.

Clover watched him swallow and exhale, and all too suddenly Qrow's heart leapt from his chest and he wondered - _does he know?_

"There's a room upstairs," Qrow said carefully, conversationally. "Why not rent it out?"

"Oh, no," Clover replied quickly, shaking his head. "Even if I did, nobody would take it. People say it's haunted."

"Haunted?" Qrow could hardly keep the contempt from his voice. New shadows even in his old home. Clover settled in an old, creaky chair, and Qrow hesitantly sat down across the coffee table from him.

"There was a barber that lived there." Clover's elbows settled on his knees, and he leaned in almost conspiratorially. "A lovely man - a foolish man. They had him locked up for life."

"What was his crime?" Qrow asked quietly, though he knew the answer.

"Good question," Clover mused. "He had this wife - almost as pretty as him, and twice as naive. Poor fool caught the attention of a judge, but she spent all her time crying over his loss, ignoring his affections.

"So instead the Beadle showed up at her door, inviting her to the judge's party. He felt so bad, or so he claimed, for her troubles - all a ruse. Powerful men can get ahold of powerful drugs, sir," Clover hummed low in his throat, "and she had no chance. If she wouldn't give him what he wanted, he would take it."

"No," Qrow whispered despite himself, all too aware of Clover's curious eyes on him. His heart was in his stomach, bile burning in his throat all over again. "No - how could they all just - ?"

Clover's eyes sparkled even as Qrow felt he was drowning.

"So it is you," Clover said, an awed note to his voice. "Qrow Branwen. Whatever happened to you?"

It took a moment for Qrow to muster a response, too busy trying to force away the thoughts of what could have transpired that dreadful night. "Don't you know?"

"They only ever told me they took you away," Clover replied simply. "Never where, or what for."

"Funny," Qrow scoffed. "That's all they told me, too." He rubbed at his wrists idly - the ghost of shackles hanging around them was still a raw memory, even fifteen years later. "Where is Summer?"

It was then that Clover faltered, leaning back in the chair and picking at a loose thread on his shirt. Impatiently, Qrow waited, until Clover finally admitted, "She poisoned herself."

"She . . . ?"

"I tried to stop her, but she didn't listen to me - "

Summer would never - would she?

"And the judge took your daughter in her absence."

Fifteen years. Fifteen years spent sweating away in disgusting prison labor on a false charge, fifteen years spent plotting his escape, fifteen years hoping he could come home to a wife and daughter, only to find his wife dead and daughter kidnapped.

"Now then, Mr. Branwen . . . "

"No," Qrow interrupted sharply. "It's Tai now - Tai Yang. And I will have revenge."

All Clover offered to that was an inexplicably amused little _hm,_ an eyebrow quirking up at him.


End file.
